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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Split Decision 2000

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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



Split Decision 2000


If Al Gore and W. Bush can both pretend to be President of the United States
without actually winning the election, a person can pretend just about anything.
Each of them likes the idea of being leader of the free world, so that’s what
they’re playing with, setting up transition teams and meeting with the CIA. But
me, I like the idea of their being bisexual, so that’s what I’m playing
with.

    

When they join me, I’m on my couch wearing the sort of Von Furstenburgish
outfit that Florida’s Secretary of State Kat Harris throws elections in. Dubya
is jittery, but his cock-of-the-walk swagger is back. Al, I’m pleased to see, is
wearing his shirt sleeves rolled, which promises a hard-working interlude. I
remove their pants with my mind, but each of them is so shriveled with fear
you’d need a bi-partisan team of inspectors to even find their mandates.

    

“This is a democracy,” I remind them, “so no leader is going to actually be
shot, the way they normally are when an attempted coup inflames partisan
hostilities. But since unprotected sex can be deadly, I want you both to put on
these rubbers.” Bush picks red ones to match the states he took on CBS’s election
night map, which leaves the blue ones for Gore. Next I explain to them that in
the game we’re about to play, whomever starts out on top will probably end up on
the bottom, so don’t panic.

    

To his surprise, Dubya draws the short straw. What that means, I explain,
as I position him over a throw pillow with his butt in the air, is that he gets
to pretend that he’s a puppet, manipulated by meaner, smarter men. And Gore
gets to pretend that he’s an instrument of the people’s will. Both seem
comforted by the familiarity of the roles I’ve asked them to enact, and that’s
good, because, well . . . Frankly? Their flop-sweat is starting to bug me.

    

Dubya, I am pleased to note, has a very tight white little butt for a
president, most of whom have noticeably expansionist tendencies, and I point
this out to Al, who is staring at its cleavage dumbstruck.

    

“You don’t have to see sunshine,” I explain helpfully, applying gobs of
petroleum-free lubricant. “You can legally accept indentation as an expression
of intent.”

    

When Gore hesitates, I lie down along President Dubya’s back so as to present
President Al with a bushier sight. “Pretend that I represent the thousands of
votes stolen from you by defective ballots, hostile poll workers and bogus
technicalities.”

    

As President Gore, engorged by the thought of an easy way in, plunges
towards me, I cleverly roll off, diverting him into President Bush’s tight
little cabal.

    

“Ow!” yells Dub, “As a God-fearing American, I want this to end as soon as
possible.”

    

But once the initial shock of the thing wears off a bit, it becomes clear
that President Dubya doesn’t mind all that much if President Al wants to
prolong the electoral process. Their moves become sinuous, complex, syncopated.
I’m getting a contact buzz just watching them, so that neither of us notice
President Dub dialing his cell until we hear him summoning his older brother Jeb, the
Florida Governor, to come hurry things up.

    

Minutes later, Governor Jeb arrives with a surprise for us all: it’s Ms. Kat
Harris, wearing a dress exactly like mine, only without irony. You’d think that
Jeb would find Gore’s massive base intimidating, but no. Within seconds Jeb has
slipped on a red-for-Bush condom and is ramming Gore from behind to speed him
up. Kat leaps on his back and clings like a virgin on horseback.

    

I’m starting to worry for Dubya, who’s got a whole stack of millionaires
grinding away on top of him, and whose eyes are starting to pinwheel the way
they do when he tries to act humble. Then, magically, I can feel what he feels,
something sliding open inside me and a gush of energy hot as a Texas Bar-B-Q in
Hell (Daddy liked Jeb best), an outpouring of joy and bitterness rushing out
(Jeb’s working for me now), a convulsion of total confusion (but I’m still on the
bottom), non-being (and I could lose it all), barbarian hoardes (but I won’t),
hard white-light coke disco (Ima gonna beat this), gavels falling, balloons
dropping, champagne popping (Ima gonna rule, goddamit. I do rule. I do).

    

Gore roars and convulses, Jeb sighs, Kat crows . . .

    

And I, Kitty, am home alone again, basking in afterglow while my tech
stocks plummet. Suddenly, I discover, I’m poor, but I don’t feel poor, because
I’ve been a part of history and learned a valuable lesson from it all: which is
that just as a person’s sexual identity isn’t always as obvious as you think,
neither is American democracy.

last week next week

Maggie Cutler ©2000 All rights reserved